


The Lies We Tell Ourselves

by bioplast_hero



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Accidental Submissive, Arena, Assumptions, Baby's First Kink, Crack, Fear Boner, Lotor finds humans very strange, M/M, Unlikely Savior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioplast_hero/pseuds/bioplast_hero
Summary: Matt doesn’t know much about being a Galran prisoner. But when the prince leads him from his cell on a leash, he knows enough to decide that he’s fucked.
Relationships: Matt Holt/Lotor
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40
Collections: Lotor Week 2020





	The Lies We Tell Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> Friends, this is officially the dumbest thing I've ever written. Matt thinks he's been purchased as a royal bed slave and the fear boner is real.
> 
> If you're here for actual smut, you came to the wrong place. 😂 More of a mindfuck instead.

Matt doesn’t know much about being a Galran prisoner. But when the prince leads him from his cell on a leash, he knows enough to decide that he’s fucked.

Well, not _yet._ Not a soul has touched him beyond handling his bindings. Honestly, he’s decently surprised to still be in one piece, from what little Matt glimpsed of the Arena. Lord knows how he’ll ever thank Shiro for getting him out of there.

But being weak and wounded has its cost, too, and it doesn’t take long for Matt to get wind of being _on the market._ Useless in the arena, the Galra will sell him as a slave to the highest bidder. 

“This one will fetch a pretty price,” one of the handlers hooks a thumb in his direction. “I’m sure of it. Likes ‘em delicate, like.”

The thought of being purchased for _lord knows what_ makes Matt vomit up his meagre cellblock meal.

_Pleasure slave._ That’s what he hears for days while he tries in vain to sleep, not wanting to listen, to _imagine._

He does anyway, of course. He’s seen his share of porn, with CGI monster dicks and belly bulges, probably something with tentacles, and all the stamina of a galloping horse. Why did he ever watch that shit, anyway?

So by the time the prince came for him himself— tall, handsome, powerful— Matt had to do a double-take. He was purple, yes, but otherwise didn’t look much like any Galra he’d seen. No fur, no scales. Did he have a tail?

Being sold is still unpleasant, but Matt’s stomach is too empty to churn too much in response. The guard affixes a leash to his hefty electric collar, shackles his forearms together at his back with a painful deftness, and Matt is delivered into his new master’s care.

As he follows the Galra through the corridors, it’s all Matt can do to watch the alien’s back and keep a sharp out out for suspicious appendages.

//

Matt sits in the cabin of a small ship, some kind of personal craft that he felt taking off not long after he was loaded inside.

And then… nothing happened. It was a bit anticlimactic. But how was Matt to know what to expect? He’d never been sold before.

At least the collar and arm cuffs are gone. Matt tries to see it as a kindness, even as his guts churn over why he might need his hands free. 

The cabin is cramped, institutional and drab in most ways, but the bedsheets are dark and silky and it makes Matt shiver at the implication. The ship is small. Surely there’s only one bed.

_The prince’s bed._

There’s a canteen of water and a pouch of what looks like energy chews in a very unappetizing green. Matt hasn’t seen sustenance that actually looks like _food_ since the rations on the way to Kerberos, and he always had to squint at those, too, to make them palatable. At least these are fairly solid and not some repulsively sticky goo.

He drinks the water and contemplates the ‘food,’ but he still doesn’t know what is coming. Maybe… an empty stomach will be best.

_Pleasure slave._

Matt runs his hand over the sheets and images flood into his mind. 

_Skin to skin, pressed against silk. His wrists held overhead in a steely grip. Someone biting sharply at his neck._

Matt shakes his head. He had his neck bitten once, somewhere in the course of making out with Claire behind the big fountain at the mall. It was the summer before their junior years; she was taller, as Matt only had his growth spurt later that next semester. Everything was going just fine with Claire and the mashing of lips and tangling of tongues. Right up until the moment she mouthed her way down his throat and _bit_ him. Matt yelped. It wasn’t very dignified. She sort of avoided him after that.

That mall feels a lifetime away. Other kisses came and went in the years that followed, but no more bites. Not that he’s thought about it… much. Why does the Galran prince call biting to mind? 

Matt knows nothing about his new master, he realizes, and next to nothing about sex besides the barest mechanics of it all. But from everything he’s seen, the Galra play rough.

The problem with being left alone is having altogether too much time to contemplate just how well and truly fucked he is going to be.

_One purple hand dragging down his bare chest. Nails too sharp, almost claws. It stings. His legs pried open with a knee, silk warming under his splayed thighs._

Matt gulps. Maybe he’ll just sleep on the floor.

//

Footsteps alert him just moments before the door slides open, leaving Matt’s whole body tense like a whip. The prince enters and Matt sinks to his knees on the floor, eyes firmly downcast. He doesn’t want to be on the bed— no way— but neither does he want to jump to his feet and cause some offense.

_Then he might have to punish me._

“What are you doing?”

_Cowering,_ Matt thinks. “Kn-kneeling,” he says.

The prince only hums in response. “You’ve not eaten.”

_See, he is gonna punish me. I knew it, fuck—_

“Sorry, master,” Matt croaks. He can’t see the prince’s face but the silence is thick enough to slice with a knife. 

The prince finally moves, stepping over to the bed, and Matt can’t breathe for his fear— but then he only picks up the pouch of chews from the ledge by the headboard and offers them down to where Matt stays stock-still on his knees.

“You’d best keep up your strength,” his master insists. 

_For what?_ He wants to ask. He can’t ask.

Matt dares not put up any fight, not over this. Still, it makes him quake, feeling their fingers brush ever so slightly as he accepts the offered food.

Mute, Matt tears into the packet and pulls out a piece. The taste is musty and sweet in a metallic kind of way. He forces himself to swallow.

“A promising start,” his master praises. Then the prince sits on the bed.

_This is it. This is when it happens. He’ll unbuckle his belt— can almost hear it now. He’ll force me to suck his huge purple cock, and— I can’t, oh god, I knew I shouldn’t’ve eaten—_

“You don’t need to kneel.”

Matt’s mind grinds to a halt. The Galran’s belt, if he even has one, is still buckled.

He’s too startled to remember that he was supposed to avert his eyes, blinking up at his new master’s face.

The prince looks down at him with a slightly sharp smile, and that really doesn’t help Matt get a handle on his fear. That smile says _predator,_ though it doesn’t agree with his words.

“What do I call you, human?”

Matt has a prisoner number, right here on his neck. That was enough for his other jailers. Hesitantly, Matt moves to show his number, ducking his head and brushing his hair away from his nape.

“Ah, no.”

“I’m sorry!” Matt cowers.

Lotor clears his throat. “Let us try that again. What I meant was, what is your name?”

It’s all Matt can do to stare back. Why would his master bother with his name?

“You may call me Lotor,” he says, blue eyes gleaming at him in a field of gold. “Unless you’re particularly fond of giving nicknames.” 

“L-Lotor,” Matt stutters.

His master… Lotor… gives him an answering smile. It’s encouraging. He must’ve done something right. And although Matt is trying not to think too hard about all the very immediate reasons he cares about the prince’s opinion of him, he’ll take an honest win.

“I am unfamiliar with your customs. I didn’t suppose that humans had a rigid hierarchical structure, but ‘master’ certainly isn’t necessary with me."

Not _master,_ then, but it doesn’t keep Matt from thinking it. He said no kneeling, but then he doesn’t seem to hate the kneeling, either— maybe the kneeling is okay? 

“And may I have the pleasure of your name, in return?” Lotor asks. It’s cordial, almost flirtatious. Matt feels his cheeks heat.

“Matthew. Matt— Holt! Matt Holt,” he croaks.

“And which part of that was your name?”

“All of it, sort of,” he huffs a nervous sigh. “Matthew. Or Matt. Um, both are my name.”

“Matthew,” Lotor says, looking almost happy for a moment, looking down at him on his knees. “Charmed.”

Matt checks the mental box next to _kneeling = okay._

The prince stands and paces to the wall where he opens a compartment that appears to contain clothes. 

“I imagine you would like to bathe and be rid of that degrading prisoner uniform,” his master says evenly, clicking his tongue as he fingers his way through the contents before him. “I’m afraid that I don’t have anything in your size. We will remedy that when we can. For now, ill-fitting clothes seem preferable to the alternative.” Lotor hums like he has amused himself a little bit.

Something about the word _bathe_ has Matt choking on his terror all over again. 

_He wants me to wash, to... to prepare myself. A prince wouldn’t deign to put his hands on a dirty rat—_

“I’m afraid these are the closest I have.” Lotor deposits some clothes on the mattress, then heads to the door. He lingers a moment in the hallway. “When you are ready, the washroom is there,” the prince points, “and the cockpit is this way. That is where I will be, should you require anything. And this,” he indicates the second glyph on the panel by the door, “will lock and unlock the door. The room is yours.”

Then the prince is gone, the door sliding closed with a soft rushing sound that leaves Matt wondering what in seven hells just happened. He stays on his knees a while longer, just to be sure.

//

Matt sleeps before venturing to the bathroom, trying to get a handle on his anxiety. It’s a fitful sleep, disturbed by dreams he’d rather not mention. He wakes fully hard in his skin-tight suit. It’s a bit of a shock. He thought he’d never have a boner again after _Revenge of the Tentacles_ seemed a real possibility.

Matt feels the silk against his cheek as he shifts on the bed, and it’s so like his dream. He’s sure he was face-down in these sheets, legs spread with a cock puncturing his lungs. He thought he remembered screaming.

Now he’s one or two thrusts away from finishing in his clothes. 

_They are ruined, anyway,_ comes the intrusive thought. Almost like he heard someone _say_ that to him, if only in his dream. Someone tall and strong with a commanding voice he wouldn’t dare ignore. Someone who ripped open his clothes to fuck his virgin asshole.

Matt rocks his hips down against the mattress and a burst of light blooms behind his eyes. Mortified, but not enough to stop, he moves again. His legs fall further open, imagining, remembering. Matt clamps his jaw shut around a mewl as he shoots off in his pants.

_What the fuck._

Is it better or worse, he wonders, that he’s doing this to himself? He can’t stop imagining how it will start. How his master’s hands will feel, his hands, his cock—

_There it is. There’s the shame._

_How about that shower?_

Matt can’t read these Galran clocks, but it sure feels like the middle of the night. He tiptoes to the door, the stack of provided clothes tucked under his arm. Mercifully, it opens quietly to an empty hallway. Slipping around the doorframe, he keeps his back to the bulkhead for the short distance until he trips through the threshold of the only other door, closing and locking it as fast as his trembling fingers can manage.

He doesn’t know why he locks it, really. It’s not like the captain doesn’t have the override code, anyway. Matt isn’t a _child._ But there is the illusion, however fleeting, of safety.

Matt turns a dial and luckily it’s all pretty intuitive despite being marked in more of those unfamiliar glyphs. What comes out isn’t plain old water. It’s far too fluorescent for that, but when it doesn’t melt the skin off of his pinky finger and instead feels warm and welcome, Matt decides not to question the yellow-green cleaning solution and strips his defiled prison garb to the floor. 

The slightly cloying chemical smell will help him remember not to rinse his mouth with the stuff, at least.

But it feels good, undeniably good, to step under that heated spray, letting it pummel his muscles. He uses both hands to sluice the grime from his neglected skin, shuddering in simple, honest pleasure. Matt hasn’t felt quite human since their capture. A soft bed, a shower, an _orgasm—_ things could definitely be worse, right?

_Be careful what you wish for,_ his higher brain function bitterly reminds.

No matter how good the not-water feels, Matt’s eyes dart repeatedly to the door just to be sure it’s still closed, still ‘locked.’ He half expects one of those times to meet the sly prince’s eyes through the steam.

When his cock stirs in response, Matt knows he’s had enough.

There don’t appear to be anything like towels, and he’s a little wary of exploring whether one of these settings is a drying mode lest he end up with the _neatly-removes-your-skin_ mode by accident. He’s in luck or very much isn’t, because some kind of rinse cycle starts and the not-water now is a kind of Windex blue. 

The drying mode is honestly the most disturbing, a vortex of polar wind that quickly dials up to a nice summer stroll on Mercury. This is the skin-flaying setting he was worried about. It does stop before actually starting to cook him alive, and there’s not a droplet of water on him anywhere, he’ll give it that much.

The clothes are strange. The jagged pattern looks oddly like scales, iridescent in the light and in all the colors of a raging sunset. It doesn’t look very Galran, or Matt has only seen the utter basement of Galra society. Okay, yeah, likely that.

Maybe this is considered… sexy.

There are no underwear, which is a shame. Matt sorely misses underwear. Instead, he’s staring down at some leggings that will definitely be too loose on his body, made of something soft and draping. Fit for a royal bed slave.

There’s no drawstring, but Matt is an engineer, after all. He can work with this, gathering two deep pinches of the waistline and knotting them together at his hip. If it wasn’t high fashion before, maybe it is now.

But something’s still not right. There’s a draft. He feels around and finds, to his horror, a _hole_. Hanging open right at his tailbone.

_Oh hell no._

Matt grips the edge of the washbasin to steady himself. Just when he thought he knew what to expect.

_Why would anyone design clothing like this?! If he wanted me exposed and available, a nice Leia bikini would do, thank you very much! Yards of modest fabric and a Fuck Hole? Do the Galra think they’re being subtle?_

And to top it all off, his fear boner is back, which the loose, pliant fabric does nothing whatsoever to hide. Splendid.

Matt looks down at the prison garb he so recently defiled, deeply regretting his choices.

_Would you rather be a foul gutter rat, not worthy of interest… or a pretty little pet, fit to curl up in a prince’s lap and bounce on his cock?_

Matt shivers and, in his indecision, keeps the soft new clothes.

The top hangs like a tunic halfway down his thighs, engulfing him in a riot of those same colors. There’s a small mirror set into the wall and Matt feels ice crawl down his spine as he catches sight of himself. The neckline hangs open across his collarbones, barely clinging to the point of each shoulder. It’s precariously close to slipping off.

If he squints, he can imagine the appeal. The clothes cover almost all of him, aside from the neckline and that conspicuous gap at his ass. The size makes him look childlike, innocent, vulnerable. He hates it.

His new master wants to look at him _like this?_

Where is the prince now? What is he up to?

Before he really considers what he’s doing, Matt is tiptoeing past the familiar cabin, through the galley nook and toward the cockpit. Maybe he would search for a knife or some other defensive tool, if only the Galra actually consumed anything requiring more preparation than goo.

As Matt rounds the corner, the scene ahead stops him in his tracks.

The prince is sleeping soundly in the pilot’s chair, swiveled so his boots rest on the copilot seat. Faint stars rush past the main viewport as they fly. Course set, they’re plodding along on autopilot through the vast blackness of deep space.

It’s the first chance Matt’s had to study the prince’s face without fear. So he looks. In sleep, the angles of the Galra’s face look elongated, relaxed and almost angelic. His hair is brilliant white and falls over his shoulder like a curtain of snow. Long eyelashes fan against his cheeks.

He doesn’t look so dangerous now, Matt thinks, though he knows that thought is a mistake. Lips gently parted in sleep, he can still make out the points of Lotor’s teeth. One fang gently worries his lip.

Matt looks to his hands, which are frighteningly large and strong. Where his mind had filled in _razor sharp claws_ , his are just hands with long, elegant fingers and fingernails that are only a little bit sharp.

It’s strange, how very many things Matt imagined that he can’t fit into place now that he really looks.

Slumped in a chair, his master’s commanding stature becomes just height, nothing more. Height that would fit much better stretched out in a bed than it does here.

_Why, exactly, is he sleeping out here?_

Something feels funny in Matt’s chest. He’s not supposed to feel _tender_ about his slave master, now is he? Surely the Galra prince won’t spare _him_ a tender thought while he’s dicking Matt senseless later on, now that he’s _clean_ and _accessible._ He would do well to remember that.

Matt takes another long look at the sleeping royal, at the slight rise and fall of his chest. He creeps away from the barely-there sound of Lotor’s breathing.

//

They’re still flying when Matt realizes he’s no longer asleep. Laying in the dark, he resists the pull of waking and floats in the slight hum and gentle motion of spaceflight. The shuttle to Kerberos wasn’t nearly as smooth as this, and the absence of creepy creaking noises is almost something he misses. Almost.

When sleep won’t take him back, Matt goes through the motions as slowly as he can. He remakes the bed, and fluffs the cushion that is maybe-sort of a pillow. He slept in the new clothes, but he attempts to straighten them, arranging the shirt-tunic-thing’s neckline precariously at both shoulders. He re-knots the pants at his hip, smoothing the tunic down over the convenient hole that they’ll both know is there, regardless.

_Kinky fuckers._

Matt’s treacherous dick stirs at the thought, and he remembers why you don’t throw stones from glass houses.

Resigned, he slides his feet into his boots, unable to stall any longer unless he really plans to hunker down in this cabin until someone drags him out of it—

_Dragging him by his throat, eyes like gold fire. Dropping him roughly to the floor in the corridor. A sneer, about him tucking his tail like he’s forgotten he’s a whore. The master positions him with a growl, finds the chink in his armor, and spears him._

Matt holds tight to the door frame as the scene on the floor plays out in his mind, his ass clenching in terror.

That’s what he tells himself as he walks toward the cockpit by his own volition, hands firmly folded in his lap.

Matt tries to walk normally. Best not to _creep_ and _cower,_ though he has no illusions about being all that brave. He sees right away how the Galra’s ears seem perked backward in his direction as his master’s eyes hold their forward focus.

“I was wondering if I would see you,” Lotor says pleasantly. He reaches to adjust some setting but otherwise keeps flying. “Would you like to sit?”

Matt’s heart thunders. 

_Please, god, just— give me a minute, I’m really not ready! I’m—_

Lotor clears his throat and nods his head to the copilot’s chair. Matt hopes the relief doesn’t show on his face.

He goes to sit copilot. It’s all too close to the seat Lotor occupies, and the span of the Galra’s endless limbs makes it feel even _closer,_ but Matt wills himself to act normal. Or, his new normal, anyway.

Perched on the edge of the soft leather-like seat, he tries to remember anything about ‘normal’ and nothing is forthcoming. 

“I see you managed with the clothes,” Lotor observes, his eyes sliding over Matt’s collarbones in exactly the way he feared they would. A sharp chill shoots down his spine, even though the prince looks away with a respectful quickness. “Still not your size, however.”

Something in that tugs at Matt’s memory, something about the clothes not being intended for him at all, but he can’t let himself be distracted now. He has to focus. Maybe if he’s very good, very pleasing, his master will want to keep him in good health. There must be worse Galra out there. There are certainly _worse_ _looking_ ones.

Idly, the prince asks him about home, this planet called Earth. He asks what it’s like there. Matt tries to focus on the words he’s saying, but it’s confusing. Being treated like _someone_ when he knows exactly what he’s good for.

“How many planets in your people’s system? Have you inhabited many of them?”

Matt prattles on about their nine planets and their mission to the farthest dwarf’s moon.

“What kind of sun? A binary star?”

“No, um, just a regular yellow dwarf star.”

And that’s an odd question, isn’t it. Why ask Matt something he can probably look up in some star chart somewhere? Unless the empire’s charts don’t stretch that far. _Wow._ Imagine being past the edge of the known universe. He has just no idea where he is.

“Are there interstellar craft on your planet, too?”

Matt scratches his neck. “No, not really.”

Lotor frowns, seeming deep in thought. When he looks at Matt again, Their eyes lock and Matt feels that familiar shiver again. 

_He owns me. He’ll have me, when he’s ready, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it—_

“And what are Earth’s defensive capabilities?”

Matt blinks. “What? Why?”

Lotor hums. “Oh, no reason. Just idle conversation.” 

His master sighs and absentmindedly scratches his nails over the top of one well-muscled thigh. The uniform he wears is eye-catching, all sharp lines and angles save for the sash of fabric that hangs from the back of his hips like a skirt. The material is high-tech, all fasteners neatly concealed. In fact, Matt can’t make out the slit he expects to find at Lotor’s fly. That way, when he sits exposed in the prince’s lap, nothing will keep him from laying claim to his property.

“Ah.” Lotor utters the sound, gently surprised, looking at Matt’s lap.

Matt finds he is tenting his pants and, just like he feared, the ensemble does nothing to conceal that fact. He moves to hide his treacherous cock beneath his hands.

“Does that happen to your species often, without provocation?” The question sounds so innocent and Matt wants to meet the nearest airlock. “Well, it’s alright,” Lotor continues saying, and no, _it is not all right!_ “You needn’t be embarrassed with me. It is perfectly natural, I can only assume.”

Matt gulps. He wouldn’t know, really, what is _natural_ in this situation, but his master seemingly does. Are there others? Will Matt be joining his harem? Or worse: does he use his servants up and discard them when he’s done with them?

“Just make yourself comfortable. It won’t be long now.”

Alarm bells blare in Matt’s mind. _Soon. Too soon._ He’s not the least bit comforted by that, even if his cock jumps just a little.

It’s awful, isn’t it? How the Galra can be so casual about his proclivities?

_No. Just no,_ Matt decides. His life will not end here, not like this. He can do this. At least the prince is handsome. He really is, even if the purple is strange, it’s not a bad kind of strange. Maybe his master will keep him, if he shows promise.

Besides, the waiting is killing him.

Matt slides to his knees on the cockpit floor. Lotor eyes him curiously.

“We’re back to the kneeling again, then?”

Matt can’t seem to work his voice box just now to muster a response, but that won’t matter. Soon his mouth will be occupied. He crawls until he’s situated between his master’s feet.

“Change of scenery?” Lotor sounds amused, at least. Matt hasn’t ruined this, yet. Only he’s about to, probably, because he really doesn’t know what to do, how to start.

Matt leans his cheek against Lotor’s massive thigh, nuzzling there in what he hopes is an alluring manner. It’s hard to nuzzle through armor. But Matt can feel with his cheek where the hard planes of armor end and the material becomes supple, close-fitting.

“Your people are rather more affection-seeking than I gathered,” Lotor says. There’s a question in it.

Hesitantly, Matt settles his hands on the prince’s legs, shifting until his face is tucked into Lotor’s groin. He lays a tentative kiss on the soft bulge he finds there.

“What exactly are you doing?”

_Fuck, fuck. This isn’t working. It’s all wrong. I’m not pleasing my master—_

It spurs him to act more desperately. He needs to make this worth the prince’s time. But when he manages to slide a hand up his thigh, caressing with clear intent, the prince grabs his wrist with crushing force. Matt gasps, maybe moans, at the harsh grip and the sight of the Galra’s enormous hands on his skin.

“No,” Lotor says tightly.

In his shock and disbelief, Matt looks down at his master’s lap, which is all close-fitting Space Kevlar and no opening of any kind. In fact, nothing looks easy-access at all. Like trying to go to the bathroom in overalls, he’d probably have to disassemble the whole ensemble just to pee. Maybe there’s a trick to it?

“Matthew,” his master says, tone firm but not punishing. “Stop.”

Matt’s lip wobbles pitifully. “Just give me a chance! I- I can sit in your lap?”

“My lap?”

“You know…” Matt feels his face burning. “Don’t you want to fuck me? I mean, I’m not so good with invisible space zippers, you’d have to lend a hand there, but after that, I’m sure I can be good—”

Lotor raises a hand to him in a halting gesture. “Matthew, call down. Please, sit.” Matt crowds closer for a moment but the prince cuts him off at the pass. “—In your own chair, if you would be so kind.”

_It’s over. It’s all over. I’m a failure and he’s already tired of me._

When he sits, the prince meets Matt’s pout with an almost-fond smile.

“See? That’s better.” He tosses his magnificent hair a bit. “Matthew, I am… flattered. All the same, I must politely decline your advance.”

“My— what?”

“And it’s nothing against you, I should add. It’s only that I’ve got my hands quite full at the moment. I’m just not going to have the time or the energy for anything serious.”

It sinks in Matt’s gut like a ton of bricks. The Galra literally _bought him_ and Matt’s still getting the _it’s not you, it’s me_ talk.

“What did you buy me for?” Matt asks quietly.

The prince’s brow creases at what appears to be a rather unexpected question. 

“Look there,” Lotor points. “What do you see?”

“A ship?”

“A base,” the prince corrects. “A Coalition outpost. The rebels will be looking for able-bodied men.”

Fear grips Matt’s throat. _Able-bodied?! He knew the prince was too good to be true. Now he’ll be left at a space brothel._

Lotor checks the nav and prepares an entry communique. “Of course, I’ll have to be oblique in my approach. They are enemies of the empire, and I am heir to it, for all appearances—”

“You are turning me over to your enemies?!” Matt cries. He’s hysterical. “Master, please. Let me prove myself. I can be good, so good. Don’t turn me away!”

“Enough!”

Matt’s jaw snaps soundly shut at his master’s command. 

“Listen to me,” the prince says solemnly. “What you may not be understanding is that I am liberating you. You will be safe here with the Coalition, where the empire cannot touch you. Or not, at least, without paying a dear price.”

Matt is still catching up. “You are setting me free?”

“Yes.”

“You bought me… to set me free?”

“Yes,” Lotor sighs.

“Why?”

“Because it rankles my father,” Lotor laughs smugly. “Because it helps my father’s enemies. Because the brutality of the arena is tasteless. When I am emperor, things will be different.”

Lotor’s speech continues, but Matt misses much of it. He’s preoccupied.

“So, why the clothes,” he mutters, interrupting some grand speech about quintessence.

Lotor laughs. “You are a funny little thing, I’ll grant you that. Look,” he groans, “I know they are an eyesore, but Ezor has a thing for Vrillain fashion and I owed her a favor. Though, I am sorry about the tail hole. A bit drafty, I should think.”

_Tail. Hole._

_Fuckity Fuck Fuck._

As they near the base, Lotor makes contact, negotiates their entry under admittedly false pretense. The rebels seem quite gullible and it does the trick. They’ll be in the hanger any minute.

“This whole time, you weren’t going to fuck me at all?”

Lotor blinks at him. “No, I wasn’t.” He tilts his head askance. “I apologize. Was there some Earth courtship signal that I missed?”

“You could say that,” Matt grumbles.

“A little tip for you, then,” Lotor leans closer as if to confide in him. Matt wants to shiver, though he’s a bit too piqued for the moment. “The universe is vast, customs varied. Try being a little more direct. Your outcomes will improve.”

It’s the most surreal time for dating advice, amidst the most surreal rejection he’ll ever have in his short stupid human life. Matt bites his tongue and it tastes like disappointment.

As Matt disembarks, Lotor tells him he’s a very attractive young man and anyone in the galaxy would be lucky to be with him.

You know, if that helps.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [**twitter**](https://twitter.com/bioplast_hero)!
> 
> Other Lotor works by this author:
> 
>   * Mattor slowburn [Aren't I the Lucky One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26171101)
>   * Leithal threesome [Hers, Thine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25874854)
>   * Lotura ABO [Lotus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26079196)
>   * Keitor sparring [Back For More](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202277)
>   * Shotor fwb [Unspoken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127079)
>   * Sheitor voyeurism [His Eyes Only](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26123509)
>   * Lotorcest noncon [Asymmestry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26081176)
> 

> 
> I love comments of any kind, including emoji dances and keysmashes— all welcome. Thank you for reading. 🧡💜


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